The Question: The Daily Fight
by DarkKnightJRK
Summary: Vic Sage, controversial television reporter, has just been beaten up by a group of police officers. Now he lays on his car, remember what happened to bring him here, bleeding and spitting teeth...


It's just another smog-filled night in Hub City. The subway is sluggishly moving along its rusted rail high above me. The lights blare across the jutting skyscrapers. Prostitutes and junkies move from their shady areas here, when the sun sets, and sets off into their natural habitat of alleyways and street corners. In most cities these kinds of things are problems, but only in the poorest of slums. Problem with Hub is, most of the city is a poor slum.

The hard boot bashes me square in the face. I taste the copper of blood dripping into my mouth. Someone punches me square in the kidney, the only thing keeping me on my feet are two other attackers holding me by my arms. I stare at Officer McGrady, who gives a hard jab to my throat, causing me to choke on the blood and vomit that was planning to erupt from my mouth.

I was being stomped upon by Hub City's finest, everyone in view either too spaced out from drugs or depression to notice, or smart enough to know where to look and what not to say, all for telling the truth about the lives they destroyed and the kid they nearly killed.

Why? Here's the story.

I was sitting in my desk, finishing up my latest editorial for the Hub Gazette. With a quick click of the mouse, I send it electronically to my editor there while I finished up my latest piece for the station.

"I could give two steaming bowls of SHIT about your baby, Donna! If you don't come to work ON TIME, I will rip your head off and fire you! GET ME?!" I hear Dirk Gallagher, head anchor of the station yell at Donna, a young girl in her mid-20's, as he throws books at her. Dirk--a body like Tom Cruise and the soul of Elton John...and Tom Cruise. Donna has a 6 year-old son who was born with physical and mental disabilities, when she's not slaving her bony ass delivering coffee and God-knows what other stimulants he uses for his morning show, she's trying to keep her son healthy and content.

I hate it here. Television reporting at this point is nothing but corruption and raping of truth to get more ratings. Empty news controlled by rich beaurocrats told by equally empty people hopped on caffeine and crack cocaine. I tried my best to report the news, but the FCC keeps forcing the station to push my portions to smaller time-limits. It's gotten so far that they air the news two minutes behind so that they can cut my portion without anyone noticing. I'm getting sick and tired of it and I'm considering just quitting completely so I can go back to the paper, where I can retain some of my journalistic integrity.

But anyway, I was starting my latest censor-bound bit when Izzy phones me then quickly hangs up, meaning he has info that a journalist should interview him for. I ring him on his office phone.

"Detective O'Toole, speak your piece."

"Hi, this is Vic Sage, reporter for the Hub Gazette, I heard you have some information you have for me?"

"Yeah, got a report of a stiff. Beaten black and blue in an alleyway, next to 38th and O'Neil Street."

"And this is news...how?"

"Well, there's the fact that a great majority of them have absolutely nothing to do with it. Even the most mundane of murders have at least one guy 'supposedly' investigating it. This time, not a pig in sight. Just something that a well-meaning journalist and a _Good Samaritan_ might be interested in."

"Fair enough. I'll talk to you later."

Huh. This must be fairly big--Izzy rarely contacts me through the phone with something this vague. Either there's a good cover-up going or Izzy knows enough that if the pigs get a good whiff of his talking he'll probably end up in another dirty alleyway somewhere with his head snapped, shoes taken, and a cat pissing on his dead face for good measure by the Lord Above.

And Good Samaritan. Taking from the words of Clark, this looks like a job for...

I press the button on my belt, and the compartment opens to the mask wrapped up in a small ball. I fold the mask open and place it on my face. I press the other button on my belt and a stream of gas shoots out, enveloping me in the green smoke. The mask sticks to my face like a second skin. My hair and clothes change color. I change.

Tonight, the role of "Vic Sage" will be played by The Question.

I run down the alleyways, making my way to 38th and O'Neil.

As I find my way there, I see two of Hub City's finest mulling around. From the looks of things, it seems like they found out that someone, if not Izzy himself, talked and are trying to cover it up.

Fat chance of that, pricks. I take out my digital camera and take pictures of the tampering. I then decide to make my presence known. I grab a metal trash can lid--probably one of the few left in this city--and throw it like a Frisbee towards them. It hits one square in the head and I run to intercept the other with a solid punch to the jaw. It knocks him straight out, leaving me with the chuckle-head with a nice lump on his head. I grab him by the collar and bash him onto the brick.

_"What's the story with the corpse?"_

"I-I-I can't tell you that, man! They'll kill me!"

_"Like I won't if you don't talk?"_

After a few slaps and a threat to a vital body part used for reproduction, I get my little canary to sing. Apparently the guy was the younger brother of a fellow, name of Mickey Chandler, one of the middle-class drug dealers of Hub, decided to inform the FBI of the dealings in Hub. These cats and 3 other of Hub City's finest decided to kill this guy's brother to try to silence him. Apparently it worked, because he's meeting with them to turn in the evidence he has. My canary told he that the meeting was to go down and midnight in the docks. I look at my watch, find its 11:28, punch him out, and start running back to the station. The only way I can get there in time is if I use my Challenger. I jump into the car and blast away to the other side of town.

I make it there and find myself on the rooftop of a warehouse with a camera, watching where the deal is supposed to be made. I use my grappling hook and get my way to the warehouse on the other side. My idea is what I call the Parker Maneuver--use a camera to film my systematic beating of these corrupt cops and then sell them to the news station as Vic Sage.

They start talking...and then the cops start beating down on him. The exchange was made, but I guess they want to make sure. I took the grappling hook and flew down to the ground, lucky enough to hit one of the cops square in the chest with my feet, causing him to fly into the river. I take one of my Automatics and shoot the other two in the leg. I take my cell phone, called the ambulance, and fled with the camera.

The next day, after a lot of arguing with Starr, I get the video and a slot on the evening news, making sure that I'm angry enough to keep my controversial angle while holding it in enough where I don't have to have another screaming phone call from Starr and the FCC. Afterwards, as I step off stage I see Dirk walk towards me.

"SAGE! What gives you the GOD DAMN right to go onto MY show and try to TAKE my show? This is MY show! MINE!"

"Really? Huh. I wasn't aware of that. I thought the TRUTH was the star of the news. By the way, you got a bit of coke under your nose."

"What? Oh, oh I told my make-up person to make sure...YOU SON OF A BITCH--"

I left Dirk screaming at me in the studio, being held back by half the crew. I couldn't help but grin at his fallacy...but the grin falters as I see those 5 or 6 cops I systematically beat the living crap out of last night, each brandishing night sticks.

I was half-ready to get into position to beat them senseless again, but I remember Vic Sage is not supposed to know how to fight. So I fought at a quarter of my ability and let them grab a hold of me and let the beating commence.

After about fifteen minutes of straight pounding, they throw me onto the hood of my Challenger, and proceeded to start breaking the windows before disappearing into the smog of the night.

My face felt like a crushed pineapple, my inner organs are mush, my ribs feel sharp to my skin and I was punched so many times in the balls I feel like I'm going to piss blood for a week.

But I feel fine. I got the truth out. All this was is an immature pissy match, to attempt to prove their superiority until they're demoted back to traffic cops.

They're done.

I won.

And tomorrow night, I will fight another battle.

I just hope I win the next one...


End file.
